My Immortal (A UsUk Revolutionary War fic)
by cpv14
Summary: Warning: Sad. Very Sad. Feels. Lots of England feels. Character death. Sadness... everywhere... :'( It's that time of year again, and England isn't dealing with it really well. He's depressed. Where will his path take him?


_**I'm so tired of being here.  
**__**Suppressed by all my childish fears...  
**__**And if you had to leave, I wish that you would just leave.  
**__**'Cause your presence still lingers here, and it won't leave me alone.**_

England sat in his bedroom; he stared outside at the rain heavily pouring out in the streets of London. It was the day. America's birthday had come around once again and he wasn't taking it so well.

_Why did this happen to me? Was it fate for my downfall? It's so exhausting… living on as the example of a complete failure for everyone to laugh at. What's the point…?_

His thoughts were interrupted when he coughed harshly into his handkerchief. He glanced miserably down at the bloodstained cloth and stared back outside.

The blonde man leaned his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. The aching had returned.

The memory of a young America was bored deep in his mind, the last words he said as he left the Englishmen reduced to tears on the battlefield.

And then there were the memories of America when he was still but a child, in the care of England. Those stayed in his mind as well. They were almost worse than the memory of the revolutionary war. Those memories taunted him, left a cold message, mocked him from the inside out, _You used to be so big. Look what's become of you. It's your fault it's like this. Your fault he left. Your fault he never really loved you. You could see it on his face, he was dying to leave. All your fault._

The manipulating, harsh words echoed in his head. Arthur cringed and leaned away from the window. He hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees. He felt cold, depressed, apathetic, and most horribly... alone. It almost disgusted him how alone he felt. He should've been used to the feeling. It just felt especially strong today.

_Because you're still here._

It was funny, how he could feel so astonishingly alone, but never lonely. England didn't know what was worse: the fact that America really did leave him, or that his taunting presence didn't.

The American child he had loved, cared for, and raised… was gone. Completely wiped off the past, along with the once smiling and somewhat egotistic Britain, leaving the broken shell of a once proud man.

That particular young face, grinning up at him was the only thing that could've kept England alive when the urges resurfaced. The face who had laughed, cried, and cheered with him, but now resorted to haunting him and his dreams. They were all muddled in him. His thoughts were now a collar attached to a single leash, connected to several other collars pulling in all different directions, tearing him apart.

The ache in his heart made him clench his chest. Pain erupted through him. It physically hurt for him to move. The reminiscence of the cold, hard ground from that night was incredibly vivid. He recalled the rain that had covered him like a heavy coat, weighing him down even further. He could already feel it on him.

It's been years since the revolutionary war, and yet he hadn't even begun to let it go. He could never forget, not until he was sitting in his grave, probably just as empty as he was now anyways. Maybe not even then. Those memories were embedded in him, unerasable.

Whenever Little America accidentally hurt himself by underestimating his strength or if he'd gotten scared, he'd run to England crying and looked for comfort in his arms. Whenever he woke up screaming from a nightmare, England would be there to protect him and hold him until the boy fell asleep, almost always gripping Britain's shirt tightly.

England broke down once more, tears falling rapidly down his face. His loud sobs racked his body as his lips trembled.

A young maid opened the door slowly, peering in. England paid no attention to her. She brought in some tea and biscuits to soothe the master, placing the tray on a table and trotted to his side. She placed her hand on his back and gently rubbed it. England continued crying, considering the comfort and being grateful for it, but not able to speak it.

The maid murmured softly, "Mr. Kirkland, I've brought some food. Would you like some tea?"

England looked up at her. He tried to smile at the girl, but found he was unable to. He was unable to do a lot of things...

He rasped, "No, thank you... Elizabeth. I'd rather be left alone."

She placed both hands on his drooping shoulders and asked gently, "Are you sure? Please, just eat a little. We're all concerned. You haven't come out for a while, sir, and we just-"

"Thank you. Please, leave me alone. You're all dismissed. Tell the others they can go home if they want."

Elizabeth glanced anxiously to a few other women who stood in the doorway before looking back down at her boss. Her expression was worried, just as the others were.

"We can't leave you like this Mr. Kirkland. You need to-"

"Just GO!"

England hadn't meant to yell, especially at someone trying to reach out to him and show him some kindness. Kindness he didn't deserve. And never will deserve. Everything reminded him so much of America. He could see America in the gold satin curtains hanging before his shut windows, in the folded suits sitting inside the mahogany cabinet, in the ticking grandfather clock beside his work desk... ticking away his hours, days, years... Hell, he could even see America in the maid by his side. She was about the same age America was when he left England. Still too young to be considered an adult, but old enough to be independent... She had the same colored hair, maybe a little darker, and the same glasses in the same shape, except hers were perched on her head. She also had his rounded face, kind of like a baby. Now that he had noticed these resemblances, it would hurt even more if she also left him.

"All right. I'll leave the food here. Please eat and recover, Mr. Kirkland." She half-whispered.

Elizabeth understood. She wasn't scared or mad at him. He was hurting and damaged, so she quietly closed the door behind her as she tiptoed away, hesitant to leave his side.

One of the other maids questioned her in a hushed voice, "Is he... um... is the master going to be alright?"

"I'm not sure. Let's just hope for the best." She reluctantly replied.

Another said, "But, what if he... takes drastic measures? I mean, I really don't think he's the type of person but with what's going on… it's possible, isn't it? For someone as fragile as him to want to end it all?"

One more responded, "Well, I think it's more important to focus on his disease rather than his depression. The doctor said he has a 65% chance of actually dying in the next two months."

Elizabeth's gaze was downcast. "I know… his illness is getting worse every day. But what can we do if he rejects our help? So let's leave him be and maybe call someone who could convince him. Not now though. Now, all we can do is wait and pray he eats responsibly."

A maid added, "Yeah. I'm tired of entering his room and having to take out the trays full of untouched food... it's a sad sight, really."

"It's an even sadder sight when I'm the one who has to throw away all the bloody napkins."

Elizabeth answered, "Okay. So are we all agreed? I'll try to persuade him to eat, and we can call one of the other nations for guidance if he needs it."

They all nodded and the maids went their separate ways.

Back in the bedroom, England was writhing on the floor, clutching his chest. His heart… it felt like it was dying.

_I hate this... I don't want it. Someone, anyone, please make it stop! I don't want the pain. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault, I don't want it anymore...!_

Arthur knew the part of his heart that was still capable of holding love belonged to America. It was excruciatingly clear that the American didn't want it. He knew America, along with everyone else, purely hated him. Or they didn't care. He knew the maids would call another one of the Allies to help him, probably France again. It wouldn't work. He knew he was dying and no one was going to do anything for him. Not because they loved him. Sure, his servants would keep him alive for as long as possible... did that mean anything? The loving his heart was yearning for was the only thing that killed him. He knew... he knew... he knew...

No, Arthur was too ugly, mean, grumpy, annoying, loud, vicious, critical, demanding, delusional, crazy, the list went on and on.

_If I were to disappear… would anyone care? Would there actually be anyone at my funeral? Would anyone cry?_

He wailed, knowing the answer. He wailed, drowned in regret. He wailed, wallowing in self-pity. He wailed as pathetically as a half-dead man could.

His hands shook as he pushed himself up and off the floor. His legs shook with each step towards his desk. With a heavy sob, he wrote a note, tears falling onto the parchment, weeping as he clasped the piece of paper to his chest. He shoved his palm into his top drawer and drew out a key. Unlocking the bottom drawer, he grabbed the pistol.

He collapsed onto his bed and curled up in a fetal position. He shut his eyes, and although his eyelashes were drenched in tears, they didn't glisten in the darkness. He coughed out some more blood. It pooled around his head but left the note untouched.

Arthur breathed heavily, opening his eyes. Slowly drawing the gun to his temple, he stared at his window. He stared directly at the window. At the glass, the bulletproof glass. _Locked inside this disgraceful cage, a sorry excuse for a bedroom. _He forced himself to look beyond. It had stopped raining and a ray of sunshine was peeking out from above the dark clouds.

_**And I held your hand through all of these years, but you still have…  
**__**All of me…**__**  
**_

It made his room just a bit brighter. His tears could finally shine like the diamonds in the soft light, one last drop trickling down his left cheek. Arthur was relieved he'd seen the light. And for once, it didn't remind him of America. It reminded him of a laugh.

He gazed at the tiny beam of sun behind the clouds.

As he pulled the trigger, he uttered his last few words.

"Forgive me, Alfred." And he smiled.

A gunshot rang throughout the entire household.

But it wasn't nearly as appalling as the childish laugh that floated down the halls and out the door.

* * *

Oh, my God! Why did I write this?! I feel like smashing my head against a wall repeatedly. I might do another chapter for the outcome of that but please favorite and review, I love reading reviews. Well… I apologize if I gave you unexpected feels. :'(

Disclaimer: I do not own the song lyrics, they do not belong to me. The song is "My Immortal" by Evanescence. I OWN NOTHING!


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